


That Time You Became my Shadow

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Series: Why Sherlock has Ruined my Life [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he saw Sherlock, he nearly had a heart attack until he realized the man wasn't really there.  As he starts to see Sherlock more often, he just slides into the makeshift comfort of having some kind of Sherlock around, even if he was just a hallucination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Time You Became my Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on Tumblr and this one inspired by one I got:  
> Three years after Sherlock's fall, John continues to visit Sherlock's grave. He's gone back to using his cane and his PTSD has started to cause him to hallucinate. Sherlock decides today is the day he comes back to his old life. When he finds John, sobbing by his grave, John thinks it's his PTSD acting up and Sherlock has to convince him that he's real.

John twirled the spoon on the table with his forefinger, his tea already forgotten in its cup, growing colder by the minute.  So he ignored it and continued to play with the spoon, his attention drawn to the way it shone every time it spun into the light just right, blinding him for less than a second.  Finally he stops, catching the spoon in his other fingers and lifting it off the table to stare at it as though he had never seen a spoon before in his life.  His gaze flickered down to his cold tea and he frowned.  Sherlock would have complained that he was thinking too little, that his lack of thought was putting him at Anderson’s level of stupidity and to stop that.  Right now.

John smiled sadly and stood, leaning heavily on his cane, and taking his cup with him to the sink and pouring the liquid down the drain.  He carefully cleaned the cup and set it down to dry, moving toward the door and snatching his coat from where he had thrown it last time he had come back from wandering outside.  That was really all he did now, wander.  He never had any destination to look forward to anymore.  No drinking nights out with Greg, no dates, no job to go to, and, worst of all, no cases to solve.  He missed the feeling that came with going to a crime scene, the feeling of danger that came with the thrill, the buzz of excitement wafting off Sherlock and infecting John.  He couldn’t help but feel a bit giddy every time he stood next to an excited Sherlock.

“Where are you going today?”  A voice said from beside him as he shut the front door.  He didn’t reply until he stepped down onto the sidewalk.

“No where in mind, like always,” he kept walking, eyes drifting up to the ever present, gloomy, London sky.

“Are you perhaps going to pay a visit to the cemetery today?  You haven't gone in over a month,” the cool voice came again, their steps keeping time with John’s slight limp.  The pain in his leg was back, even though it was less this time around.  He knew that there was nothing wrong with the leg, but he just had defaulted back to how he had been before he met Sherlock, cane and all.  A group of teenagers passed them, chatting aimlessly to each other and probably bunking school.  He waited until they were past and there was no one else in sight before he answered.

“Perhaps.  I’ll have to buy some flowers first, though, or steal some from someone’s garden,” he smiled and he heard the man chuckle next to him, “What would you like me to put this time?”

“Something pink.”

“Pink?  Really?  I wouldn’t have tagged you as a pink person.”

“I’m not.  Pink is just the first case we were on together.”

John glanced over sharply and the man in the dark coat smiled down at him.  He raised an eyebrow, “I never took you for the sentimental type, Sherlock.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, John.”

“And there’s a lot I’ll never know about you.”

“Quite,” Sherlock stopped walking, pulling his coat tighter around him, “I best be going now.  I’ll leave you alone for a while.  Perhaps we can go to the cemetery together.  It might be a bit odd, but I’m sure you’d appreciate the company.”

John snorted, rolling his eyes, “Of course you’re going to tag along.  You always tag along with me where ever I go.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile and John looked away, continuing to walk without that shadow following him.  He knew that he was going insane, that Sherlock wasn’t there, having a casual conversation with him.  He had seen him fall, after all, seen his bloodied face and eyes staring up at nothing.  He had felt his wrist, pressing his fingers into the ivory skin, still warm with life, and felt no pulse quivering through the veins.  Yet a week later, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa as though he had never left, his hands steepled up in front of his face, his eyes flicking around as though he could see things John couldn’t, and his expression was blank except for the slight furrow of his brow.

But he hadn’t been there seconds before, John had been alone in the room, staring at his blog, an empty entry set out in front of him.  But when he had looked up, there Sherlock was, lost in thought.  John had dragged a hand over his tired eyes and when he could see again, his lanky friend was gone again, back to being dead and he was left with a heart threatening to burst out of his chest and paranoid eyes looking everywhere for another sign of the consulting detective.  But one never came again until a week later.  John had been making tea, staring at the kettle with a bored expression when, suddenly, a severed hand was placed on the counter next to him.  He had swiveled in horror and found Sherlock staring down at the hand, a smile on his face and fondness in his eyes as though he was looking at his own child.

Sherlock had wandered off, disappearing around the corner, John’s eyes glued to him, but when John looked back down at the hand, it was no longer there.  It had never been there and finally he began to understand.  This Sherlock edged ever so slowly into his life, never speaking at first, but finally started making remarks about what was on the telly before swinging into full blown conversations with John the week after.  Ms. Hudson had walked in one time during one of them and had timidly asked what was going on.  John had just smiled at her and told her he was just thinking aloud.  The color had returned to her face and she set down the food she had brought upstairs, kissing him motherly on the forehead before leaving once more without a word.

She knew something was off with him, as did Greg and Mycroft, both of who visited from time to time despite the fact John told the to bugger off within the first few seconds of every visit.  They just wanted to check up on him, make sure he was okay, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of this Sherlock, who would look at the intruders with such disdain, donning his usual dressing gown.  The real one was still left where Sherlock had last thrown it.  John could see it out of the corner of his eye.  He never told his therapist about this delusion, hallucination he was seeing and he never talked to Sherlock when there were people around or within earshot.  He just didn’t want to seem even crazier than he knew he already was.  Didn’t really need to confirm what he already knew.

He did buy a pink rose in the end, only one flower, as usual.  He liked to think Sherlock would ridicule him for buying more than that, would say it was going overboard.  John would probably agree with him, but mostly because Sherlock would have never appreciated such an act of kindness, humanity.  He would have scoffed at it and called it illogical to show such emotions after death.  They were gone, buried six feet under, and yet people still mourned for them?  Left them flowers they would never see and just wilt into the ground until picked up by the grounds keeper.  Illogical.  John would have probably just resisted his usual urge to punch him in the face and just walk off instead.

“So you did get a pink flower?  Good, and a rose at that,” that baritone was back, the illusion keeping step with John, the black coat billowing dramatically out behind him, as usual.  John didn’t answer.  There were people around.  Plus, it wasn’t like he needed to answer for Sherlock to know what he was thinking.  John signaled for a taxi and slid in, not bother waiting for Sherlock to come in as well.  He had made that mistake one and looked like a drunkard, something he never wanted to live through again, especially while sober.  Sherlock appeared moments later in the empty seat, his phone out and glowing, but no one to text.  John gave the exact change once they reached their destination, not throwing away money like Sherlock did some of the time, merely throwing a wad of cash up to the cabbie.

He got out and moved though the cemetery, his shadow keeping up as usual until he found the usual black gravestone and then he stopped.  It was quite now except for the leaves rustling over the ground.  Fall was here, the trees were beginning to redden and shed, and soon it would be chilling.  John kneeled down in front of the marker, letting his cane drop next to him.  He ran a hand over the engraved words and placed the rose down.  Its pink was startling against the grass.  He truly hadn’t been here in what felt like a long time.  It felt as though it had been a little too long.  It had taken him a bit to remember how to navigate amongst the other headstones.  He was forgetting where his Sherlock was.

“I’m sorry,” his voice broke already, “I haven’t come to see you in a while, have I?”  No answer, he didn’t expect an answer, though, not even from the Sherlock standing over him, “I should apologize for that.  I haven’t been quite busy, so I’ve really got no excuse, have I?”

He let out a sad laugh running his hands down his face, “Guess I don’t like coming here.  I don’t like seeing you dead.  Lying in the ground, dead, unthinking, unmoving, was definitely not something you had planned on.  I bet if you could, you would find someway to live forever, so you’d never have to grow old or die, just live forever in the thrum of the world.  Until you got bored, I suppose.  Too little murder to solve or something of the sort,” there were tears now, or was it raining.  No, the sky hadn’t opened yet, “I know I asked you for a miracle those two years ago, but I know I’m never going to get it, am I?  It’s all right.  Keep it for yourself.  Use it for a rainy or boring day up there or wherever you are.  Don’t waste time on little old me.”

He broke apart, sobbing into the grass and dirt, a hand pressed over his mouth to keep down his howls, his whole body shaking.  Oh, god, he was like a little child, sobbing when they couldn’t get what they wanted.  He wanted Sherlock.  Oh, god, he wanted Sherlock back.  Not some illusion that slapped severed hands onto counters, but the living, breathing Sherlock that kept heads in the fridge next to the milk.

“Don’t waste anything on me, okay?”  He choked out, “I’m just your blogger, all right?”

“You’re more than that,” Sherlock’s voice came.

“Oh, shut up, you bloody wanker.  I’m having a moment here.”

But he didn’t.  Of course, “Why the pink rose?  Usually it’s something different, less colorful.”

“It was your idea, remember?  Well I guess it was mine, technically, but you’re the one who brought it up.”

“I did?”  The Sherlock sounded horribly confused.  How unlike Sherlock that was.

“Yes, you git,” John looked up, finding the Sherlock standing at an angle to his right, “You said to get pink because that was our first case together.  Pink.  So I did.  Don’t tell me you’ve suddenly changed your mind.”

Now Sherlock didn’t just sound confused, he look downright disturbed as well, “You’re taking this much better than I thought, though I’m not quite sure what’s going on.  Perhaps you’re having a mental breakdown or did Mycroft tell you even though I told him not to and this is all some elaborate prank to get me back.  Because if it is I’m sorry for-“

“Oh, shut it,” and, amazingly, Sherlock did, “I don't need this shit right now.”

He rubbed a sleeve of his coat over his eyes and cheeks, trying to dry them as best he could, but knew they would be red.  He stood up to leave, brushing the dirt off his knees, and found himself facing Sherlock.  Well, to be more exact, it was another Sherlock.

“Great there’s two of you now.  Maybe I really do need to tell my therapist about this,” he rubbed the side of his face and was about to move past this Sherlock when the other cried out.

“Wait, John.  That’s it?  You’re not going to do anything?  You’re not going to punch me in the face, yell at me until you turn red, glare at me over a cup of tea or your laptop?  Nothing?  You’re just going to walk away as though nothing has happened?”

“Why should I bother?  You don’t exist, after all.”

“Don’t exi-“ there was a sharp intake of breath and Sherlock ran over to him, moving through the other Sherlock, who vanished into air from the contact.  John did a double take at the sight.

“Yep, I’m definitely bringing this up at my next scheduled meeting,” he sighed.

“I’m real, John.  I’m flesh and blood,” he held out a hand, ripping the black glove off his finger, “Go ahead feel me.”

“I don’t need false hope.  Go away,” He moved to walk past Sherlock, but he reached out with both of his arms, grabbing onto John’s biceps.  Sherlock stooped down, meeting him eye to eye.

“I’m not dead, John Hamish Watson,” his voice was steady.

John stared down at the hands gripping onto him, one still covered, “You’ve never been able to touch me before.  This is new.”

Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock had pulled him into a hug and there was warmth.  Instinctively, he reached up, gripping onto the man as though he was a lifeline.  He had never felt heat radiate off the other Sherlock, even when they had been standing side by side on a chilly day, waiting for a cab to pull over.  There was a beating in his ear he didn’t recognize at first; without warning recognition stabbed through his body like a red-hot poker.  It was a heartbeat.  Not just any heart beat, though.  It was Sherlock’s.

His legs gave out and Sherlock scrambled to steady him, falling to his knees as well.  His hold on John was tight, keeping him close.  John smothered his face into the other’s shirt, inhaling.  Oh, it smelled so familiar, so kind.  So much like home.  He choked out another sob at the realization that this one was real.  This wasn’t a fake Sherlock.  He wept incoherently into Sherlock’s chest, sometimes managing to speak between the tears.  _You’re alive.  You’re back.  You’re real.  You're an asshole._ Sherlock would just give him comfort, his arms steady around him, rubbing circles into his shuddering back.  _Yes, I am.  I’m never leaving again.  I missed you.  I know I am, sorry._

Slowly, finally, John’s tears slowed and he reluctantly pushed away, wiping the water from his face.  He felt a bit ashamed for breaking down, crying that much in one day.  He was a soldier, goddammit.  He stood quickly, his hand gripping steadily onto his cane and took a step back.  Sherlock stood up a bit slower, his gaze wary.

“Where they fuck have you been?”

“Around.  I went to India for a while,” he held up his hands, “But I had a reason!”

“Oh, really?  I’d really love to hear it,” his voice was like acid.

“If I didn’t jump you would have died,” John gave him a look, telling him to keep talking, “Moriarty had someone ready to shoot you in the head if I didn’t jump.  Not just you, but Lestrade and Ms. Hudson, too.  I had to do it.  I had to jump.  But I also had to make it seem real in ever way possible so that no one would try to hurt you, shoot you.  Everything would have been for nothing if I had told you, John.  I’m so sorry.  I’ve hurt you, I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I’m still going to tell you I’m sorry and that you really are my most loyal, best friend.  I could have never accepted anyone other than you to be my flatmate.”

John was still hurt, confused, and outraged, but seeing this broken down man in front of him, his shoulders slumped forward, and his eyes starting at the grass, John wanted nothing more than to pull him into a hug, let him know it was okay, that he forgave him and everything would be okay.  But of course he couldn’t do that.  His rage was still like a fire inside his chest, an inferno that would only extinguish over time.  So he did the next best thing.

He punched Sherlock in the face.


End file.
